The twelfth year of being with Zane Swanson, I scrolled past a mutual friend's repost. A marriage certificate. His and some scholarship girl's.
The caption read: "Seven hard years. Legal at last."
For a moment I just stared, certain it had to be some kind of prank.
After all, everyone in our circle knew Zane loved me more than his own life.
Years ago, protecting me, he'd taken three broken ribs and nearly died at a dinner table.
I got in the car right away to go ask him myself.
Instead, I overheard him talking with a friend.
"You married Cara Pruitt. What are you going to do when Crystal Donaldson finds out?"
Zane flicked the ash off his cigarette without a care in the world.
"With Crystal's busted body? After she aborted my kid she never got pregnant again, not once in all these years. A hen that can't lay eggs. Who'd want her once she's away from me?"
"Cara's different. The girl's stuck with me all these years. I owe her a proper title."
A sharp cramp twisted through my lower belly. Fighting down the nausea of morning sickness, I dialed my father, the richest man in the city.
"Dad, I misjudged him. I regret everything. Come take me home."
——
By the time I'd finished the paperwork and came home, Cara was wrapped in my pajamas, sitting on our bed painting her nails.
The second she saw me, she pointed at the underthings scattered all over the floor from their heat-of-the-moment tangle.
A shy flush still colored her pretty cheeks.
"Take these and wash them for me."
The enormous diamond ring on her finger flashed in my eyes with every move she made.
Yesterday morning, when I'd found this ring in Zane's pocket.
I'd actually thought our twelve years were finally bearing fruit, that he meant to propose.
I'd even pulled it out, giddy, and slipped it on to try.
Even when it didn't fit, I never suspected a thing.
I'd been planning to tuck the ultrasound report into his hand as my answer, the moment Zane produced the ring and gave it to me.
"These are all real silk. They can't go in the washer."
"You have to scrub them carefully by hand. They're expensive, understand?"
Cara lifted her chin and ordered me around, full of haughty pride.
Like a beautiful little canary, pampered to perfection.
Nothing at all like the pitiful student I'd seen seven years ago, bare-faced in a worn-out T-shirt, working part-time at a barbecue stand to pay for school.
Forced to put up with the harassment of drunk customers.
She was the first student I'd offered to fund, back when Zane's startup was just starting to find its footing and I was at his side through it.
Probably because those years I'd spent living in a basement, running myself ragged to land projects for him, drinking until my stomach bled, bowing and scraping and forcing smiles just to scrape by, had been so brutal.
I couldn't stand to see a girl like her suffer the same way for survival.
So in the company's name, I'd personally wired her the funding every year.
When I didn't move, Cara pulled fifty dollars from her wallet and tossed it, along with the dirty clothes, into my arms.
"Here. A tip for you!"
I had no intention of reaching out to take it.
The clothes and the cash scattered across the floor.
Cara's eyes went red on the spot.
That was the moment Zane walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.
Years ago, a major client had taken a liking to my looks.
He'd insisted I go to a hotel with him to "have some fun" before he'd sign the contract.
It had enraged Zane so much he flipped the table right there.
The scar from the ribs that man's lackeys had broken, protecting me, was still that vivid.
Now Cara, all soft skin and warm sweetness, threw herself against him and covered it clean from view.
"Zane, baby, the housekeeper's giving me such mean looks."
Hearing Cara order me around like a maid, Zane froze for a beat, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
But the instant he saw Cara's fragile, wounded little face, he instinctively tucked her against his side.
